Therapy
Phi Han Wool x f!reader
Warnings: obsession, mental health themes, smut, inappropriate therapist-client dynamic, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex.
Summary: You were supposed to help him heal—but he decided he needed you instead.
Note: anon request!! (They just wanted smut, but I still gave it some backstory hehe)
⸻
You were a psychologist.
When you first met Phi Han Wool, he was an inmate at a juvenile detention center. Charged with assault, murder, and organized crime. But he didn’t look terrifying anymore. His shoulders were slouched. His head slightly lowered. He didn’t meet your eyes. Didn’t look around. He’d been escorted in by two guards, but he hadn’t resisted. It was as if he didn’t have the strength to.
When you said, “We're gonna have sessions every saturday.” he only gave a faint nod. His gaze was fixed not on you—but on the corner of your desk.
He didn’t say a single word the entire session. But even though his voice never came out, his silence screamed.
There were deep shadows under his eyes, scars on his knuckles—and above all, that unbearable silence that wrapped itself around him like a second skin.
Still, you kept talking. Soft voice. No pressure. Empathy. Patience. Nothing came back.
At the end, you simply jotted down a few notes in your file and ended the session.
But when you left the room— you saw his face in the window. And for a moment, he was looking at you.
For the first time.
As if something had cracked inside the silence. Small. Barely there. But it was real. And behind that crack… you could sense something beginning to stir.
You didn’t know what it was just yet but maybe—just maybe—he already knew that day, you’d end up being more than just a psychologist.
There was still a spark beneath all that ruin and you were the first to see it.
⸻
First came familiarity.
Familiarity didn’t mean trust—not for someone like him but he got used to your voice. To the sound of your pen scribbling notes. To the way you always pulled your chair back two fingers before sitting.
And slowly… he started talking. But only to you. Not to the guards. Not to the other inmates.
Only you.
Every time he came in, his eyes searched for you. When you were late, he stared at the door—unblinking.
You thought it was connection. But it wasn’t.
It was an addiction.
You had become his greatest mental obsession.
And eventually, under the quiet weight of his twisted fixation— you would either become his, or disappear into the silence with him.
⸻
One day, he didn’t want to talk.
When he walked into your office, his eyes flicked up to yours—just for a second—then dropped to the floor. You asked, “Are you okay today?” No answer. Just a small shake of the head. Not bad. But not good, either.
If you pretended nothing was wrong, he would too. So you stayed quiet with him.
You sat side by side. Not close, but not far either.
Minutes passed.
No words. Just breathing.
Then—suddenly—he turned. Leaning in quietly. Slowly.
He laid his head on your chest. Didn’t ask. Didn’t explain. He just… did it.
You froze.
But when he pressed into you— he exhaled. Deeply. As if he’d been holding that breath for weeks. Maybe months.
You slowly raised your hand, resting it on his back. And he shivered—just once.
Your fingers slipped into his hair, brushing gently. Like he’d been waiting for this closeness for years. Like he’d needed it, but never dared to ask.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t open his eyes. He just stayed there.
And you didn’t say anything either.
Because words weren’t needed.
⸻
Everything changed after that.
In the next sessions, he listened to you more closely. His eyes lit up—just for a second—when he saw you.
He started sitting closer.
He talked. But still—only to you. He smiled. But only when you said something.
And one day, he asked:
“What did you do to me?”
“Because no one’s ever made me feel like this.”
⸻
The office was quiet that day. The session had gone on a little longer than usual.
But it wasn’t a session anymore. It was tension. It was two people who had wanted each other in silence—finally breaking.
You were leaned over your desk, fingers wrapped around your pen, but your mind was on nothing but him.
He took one step toward you. Then another. And suddenly—he was right in front of you.
He reached out and cupped your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your lips.
“Just for a moment,” he said. “Forget everything.”
He leaned down to your neck, and when his lips touched your skin, your breath spilled out like a secret.
He kissed you slowly. Then deeper. Then—like he’d wanted this for years—he pressed his mouth into your neck and didn’t let go.
Your hands instinctively found his back. You gripped his prison uniform, your lips parting—but no sound came. Because your body had already given him permission.
He pulled back just a little, locking eyes with you. He reached for the buttons on your blouse. One by one. Slow. Intentional.
And with each one he undid—he kissed the newly exposed skin. Your collarbone. The slope of your ribs. The curve of your waist.
And each kiss was a quiet confession.
When he laid you down on the desk, you didn’t speak. Your feet barely touched the ground. One of his hands cradled your head. The other settled on your hip—pulling you to him.
His body pressed down on yours, heat radiating between you.
“Han Wool… this isn’t right…” you whispered against his lips.
But he didn’t back away. He didn’t even flinch.
“No, this is the only right thing I’ve ever done.”
Then he kissed you. Not rough. Not hungry.
But like he owned you and maybe he did.
Your hands slid down his back. Your mouths lost all distance. He stripped off his uniform. Your skin met his. Your heartbeat brushed against his chest.
And in that moment, there were no rules. No ethics. No guilt.
Just him. Just you. And the sound of two people coming undone.
His weight pressed into you. Every breath between you deepened. All that remained were touches.
For the first time, truly, there was no going back.
He slid his hand down your chest, to your stomach, lingering—then stopped at the band of your underwear.
Eyes locked with yours, he whispered: “I’m asking one last time.”
You nodded.
And he began pulling them down—slow, delicate—like he was memorizing every inch. Like he wasn’t touching you for the first time—but the last.
He moved lower. Kissed beneath your collarbone. Your breasts. Your stomach. Your hips.
Each kiss made you breathe harder. Each kiss made you tremble more.
And then—his lips found your most intimate place.
His tongue started slow. Then deeper. Wet. Hot. Addictive.
You grabbed his hair. Tried to pull him back—but he pushed deeper.
Eyes locked on yours, his tongue never stopped. Neither did his fingers.
One inside. Then two.
Every thrust made you shudder. Made your body scream one name—
Han Wool.
He finally pulled back, wiped his chin, but never broke eye contact.
He unzipped his pants and when his cock sprang free, your body arched involuntarily.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
You couldn’t speak. Just nodded.
His hands gripped your thighs. And he slid in—slow, deep, like he was carving himself into you.
You gasped. Your body lit up from the inside out.
He pulled out. Thrust again. Heavy. Precise. Claiming.
He leaned down and bit your neck—not hard, just enough to leave a mark.
He moved faster. The sound of the desk creaking. Skin on skin. His breath ragged. Your moans muffled.
You said his name. He said yours.
Then—he stopped using it.
Because now, your name was “mine.” Your name was “only for me.”
Your name… was the only light in his darkness.
When you both came—together—his hands gripped your waist like he’d fall without you.
He collapsed against you. Your chests heaving.
He pressed his forehead to yours.
“Finally,” he whispered.
“Now we’re both free.”
⸻
You were still trembling. Still pinned to the desk. Still covered in him.
The office was dark now. You didn’t know how long had passed.
You sat up. He was still watching you. Like nothing else mattered.
“Session’s long over,” you said quietly. “They’ll suspect something. You need to go.”
He didn’t blink. Just reached up, cradled your chin, tilted your face to his.
“You let me touch you…” he said—low, dangerous. “And now you want me to leave?”
You opened your mouth—but he kissed you. Hard. Tongue, teeth, breath—everything. He devoured your answer.
And then, he pulled back. Eyes locked.
“See you.” he said softly.
Then turned.
Right before opening the door—he glanced over his shoulder.
“This isn’t over.”
And left.
But you knew, in your bones—this was just the beginning.
The real therapy… had only just begun.
